


A View to a Kill

by Doctor_Whom



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 06:00:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17156549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doctor_Whom/pseuds/Doctor_Whom
Summary: A routine interview goes horribly wrong. Written for Winter Whump Exchange 2018.





	A View to a Kill

Morse sat back in his chair. The case today was a doozy. He and Thursday were going to visit the home of one Mr. James Barth, whose wife Melinda went missing just over two days ago. He had said she went to visit her sister, which is why he didn’t notice her missing. This was obviously a lie- Melinda Barth had no siblings, as was public record- but Chief Superintendent Bright, who answered the call, either didn’t know this or didn’t care, because he took it at face value. No body had turned up, either. Morse pondered all this, hoping to connect something off the bat. It seemed obvious that Mr. Barth had something to do with her disappearance, but it was impossible to tell what without more to go off. At that very moment, Thursday called for Morse to get in the car. Sighing in his lack of evidence, Morse complied. Perhaps everything would be clearer after talking with Mr. Barth.

* * *

 

James Barth answered the door quickly, almost too quickly, as if he had been waiting for them.

“Hello,” Morse said. “I’m Detective Constable Morse, and this is-“

“Detective Inspector Thursday,” Thursday cut in. “We’re with the Oxford City Police. May we come in?”

Barth looked them over quickly, then nodded. “Of course,” he said. He stepped aside. Morse eyed him. There was something off about his voice and not just the nervous quality of someone hiding something. His accent seemed wrong, like an American trying their best to imitate an accent and just barely getting it wrong. Morse doubted he would have even noticed had he not been already on the lookout for anything strange.

Barth led them into the living room, where he gestured for them to sit. Thursday sat down immediately and began to question him. Morse remained standing as he looked around the room. He ruffled through a stack of papers on the end table. There wasn’t anything too interesting, just some bills and a letter from somebody named Kelly Price who claimed to have ten thousand pounds waiting for him but could only access it if she received 500 pounds from him first. Morse sighed. There was nothing useful here.

The phone rang. Barth grabbed it before it had the chance to ring again. He listened for a moment, then handed it to Thursday. “It’s for you,” he said, looking dejected.

Thursday held the phone to his ear.“I understand, sir,” he said a minute later into the phone. He hung up and turned to Barth. “Can we talk alone?” he asked. Barth nodded quickly and scurried into the kitchen.

“What is it?” Morse asked. “Is there something with this case?”

“No, nothing like that,” Thursday replied. “There’s an unsolved case from many years ago, before you joined the force. Apparently, someone just came forward with new information on it and wants to talk to someone who worked the case then.”

“And they can’t do this some other time, or with somebody else, of course,” Morse said.

Thursday gave an apologetic smile. “Sorry. They’re leaving for Belfast tomorrow morning, and I’m the only one left here who worked on that case directly.” He moved toward the door.

“You’re leaving without me?” Morse was shocked. Here they had a potential murderer, and Thursday was going to leave him alone and take the car, too? Thursday wasn’t one to take these risks. Especially not with him! He had only just recovered from getting shot in the hip. He wasn’t set to take on someone like Barth were he to go mad!

Thursday must have sensed the bewilderment in Morse’s eyes because he quickly reassured him. “Oh, don’t worry,” he said. “They’re sending Jakes in. Shouldn’t be more than 10 minutes. You’ll be fine.But I’m afraid,” he said, glancing at the clock above the door, “that I have to leave now. Just continue the questioning. From what I’ve gathered he seems harmless, anyway.” And with that, Thursday was gone.

Morse glanced at the floor. As much it was clear that Jakes only tolerated Morse because he had worked with him, Morse couldn’t wait for him to show up. Something bugged him about Barth. Something was really, really wrong, and he couldn’t shake the sensation that he was in danger. A lot of danger. Morse decided that he would wait for Jakes outside. Outside, he figured, was safer than being trapped in here. If Barth truly was harmless, he’d understand. And if he wasn’t, well, all the more reason to go outside in the first place. But just as he started walking to the kitchen to inform Barth of his decision, Barth emerged with a gun pointed right at Morse’s chest.

Morse immediately shot his hands up. He didn’t carry a gun, but Barth couldn’t know that. If he thought Morse was reaching for it, he’d kill him. “I-I know you were talking about her,” Barth said, his hands shaking. He had lost all traces of his English accent, replacing it with pure Brooklyn drawl. Morse silently congratulated himself on the accurate guess of his heritage. Then he regained his senses. What was he doing, thinking about accents when there was a gun poised to kill him being held by what Morse could only assume was a madman?

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Morse replied, trying hard to remain calm. “That phone call wasn’t about your wife.”

“It was from the Chief!” Barth shouted back. His eyes darted wildly around the small room but the gun remained trained squarely on Morse. “I don’t care what you say. You’ll lie anyway. They have her, them bastards. They said they’d kill her if I brought the police. And I do and you get a call and now she’s dead.”

Morse blinked. “James. Mr. Barth. I don’t know who “they” are. And is the “her” your wife? I need you to tell me what’s going on. I can help, I promise.” He needed to stall. Jakes had a gun. And as much as Morse hated them, they were, on very rare occasions, necessary. Such as this one. He just needed Jakes to get here, then he’d be fine.

“Of course she’s my wife!” Barth yelled. He was getting more belligerent by the moment. This wasn’t working. “And the “they” is the New York mob. I owe them money. I can’t pay so I come here. They followed me. Them bastards followed me here! And now they’ve killed Melinda!” He burst into tears. “And now you want to arrest me for it.”

Morse shook his head slowly. “I don’t want to arrest you,” he said. “I want to find your wife too. And I want to help catch the men who took her. But I can’t do that unless you put the gun down.” His heart raced. Barth wasn’t responding to his reassurance. He needed to diffuse the situation. According to the clock, it would still be 5 minutes before Jakes got here. He tried a different angle. “Look. I really, really want to find your wife. But right now, all I want is for you to put that gun down. You’re a good man, James. You aren’t a killer.”

“Maybe I am,” Barth replied, a single tear rolling down his cheek. And he pulled the trigger.

Time slowed down. The gunshot echoed off the bare, grey walls as the bullet left its chamber. Morse stared at Barth. He was too shocked to move, and even if he could, there would never be enough time. And as suddenly as it had slowed, time picked up again. The bullet slammed into Morse’s chest. His hands felt around for the wall and he leaned against it, gasping for breath. The impact had knocked the wind right out of him and he was finding it impossible to take a full breath. Even Barth seemed rattled by the shot. He swayed dazedly for a moment, staring at Morse floundering against his living room wall. Then he darted out into the street.

Morse guessed he didn’t check for cars, because no sooner than the front door swung shut he heard a thud and the sound of broken glass. A voice shouted outside. Was it Jakes? Morse wasn’t sure. The sound was too blurry. He reached for his chest. His hand pulled away wet, soaked in blood. His blood. With only one hand on the wall, Morse was off balance. He collapsed to the floor and curled up. He was cold- freezing in fact, far too cold for the heat of late July. Morse reached weakly for the phone. His hand never made it.

“Hey, I think your suspect just got himself hit by my car!” Jakes shouted, opening the front door. “He ran off before I could catch him. I really wish you would pay attention to these big things instead of the small details, Morse,” he went on. “Really, how do you just miss something like this?” He waited for a response, and when none came, worry crept into his voice. “Morse?”

Through barely open eyes Morse watched Jakes round the corner to the living room. Jakes ran over to him. “Morse, are you okay?” Morse whimpered as Jakes rolled him over. “Oh my god, you’ve been shot,” Jakes whispered. “Bullets seem to like you.” He picked up the phone that Morse’s hands were too weak to grab and dialed 999. Morse knew that Jakes didn’t particularly like him, but it was clear that for all their differences of opinion, Jakes didn’t actually want him dead. Which was a good thing, because if he did, he would be. Morse coughed. The effort hurt with white-hot blinding pain. So wonderful, a rib was broken. Maybe more than one. He was sure he had coughed up some blood, but he couldn’t tell. It all mixed with the blood from the gunshot anyway.

After that Morse was in and out of consciousness. He caught glimpses of the inside of the ambulance and Jakes talking to an EMT. He heard sirens blaring from outside as the ambulance raced towards the hospital. He heard someone shout that they needed to get him into surgery. But apart from that, Morse knew nothing except his chest hurt, he couldn’t breathe, and he was really, incredibly cold. And that was all.

* * *

 

Morse awoke on a Saturday. He knew it was Saturday because it was the first thing Thursday told him. He said, “Ah, good, you’re awake. It’s Saturday. You were out for two whole days.” Morse nodded weakly.

“What-what went on? Did you catch Barth? Or did you-“ He couldn’t finish his sentence. Breathing was still hard. Probably because of the gauze wrapped tightly around his chest. Surprisingly, there wasn’t much pain anymore. That was probably because of the IV drip of what was presumably morphine going into his arm. Still, this whole short-of-breath thing was annoying him. “Did you manage- did you find-“ It was no use. His chest was heaving just from those few words.

Thursday seemed to notice his frustration. “Easy,” he said. “I’ll explain everything.” And he did. Thursday explained how after being hit with Jakes’ car and running off, Barth managed to run right into where Thursday and his contact were meeting. Thursday, recognizing Barth and knowing that something was clearly wrong, chased him down and arrested him. Barth now awaited trial while waiting in jail. They found Melinda Barth tied up under a secluded bridge. Apparently, the mob, who were indeed after James Barth, let her go after learning of his arrest. Since police scoured the area and found no trace, it could be assumed they went back to New York.

Taking all this in, Morse nodded. The case was closed. Still, he wanted to know one thing. “Where’s Jakes?” he asked, forcing the words out.

Thursday smirked. “He was hoping you’d forget. He never wants to talk about doing CPR on you. He says it’s something he’d rather not relive, although I personally think he’d do it again in a heartbeat, if you’ll mind the pun.”

“Wait- CPR?” Morse asked. “Jakes had to do CPR? My heart stopped?” It hurt to force the words, but he was stunned.

Thursday paused. “Oh. You didn’t remember. …I didn’t say anything.”

“No,” Morse said. “You said Jakes did-“ It was too much. He couldn’t breathe enough to ask.

Thursday quickly got up. “See you soon, Morse. Get better fast. We need you on the force.” And with that, he left the room.

Morse shook his head. Jakes, doing CPR on him. How on earth could he ever forget a thing like that? One thing was for sure. He wouldn’t forget again. Morse supposed he might just have to bring it up the next time he saw him. He might mention Thursday reminded him, too. He smiled weakly. Ah, to see the look on Jakes’ face!


End file.
